Iceman

Mission

He loved the feeling. Not just the power of his physical body again, but the power of his mind. The raw, rippling, totally controlled, awesome power of his restored being. He had come out of his special room smiling with joy at the promise of the night and the unexpected sensuality of being in command again. This time he would take a bitch down in the way he liked the best.

He'd been saving Heather for this. The fucking tramp. Oh, sweet Jeezus, it felt good, thinking about what he'd do to the cunt. How he'd pay them all back again. They'd fucking NEVER catch him. He WAS invulnerable. And he came out of his special place gloating, laughing with pure pleasure, slick and powerful as he slid into his car and inserted a cassette labeled Deco Echo into the unit, turning the volume up as the garage door lifted and the big car purred out into the night.

He'd met Heather in the basement of an apartment complex, oddly enough, and seduced her from the first second, using his wheels to create the atmosphere most conducive to his style of the moment, and Heather had fallen like a tree. He had convinced her into moving to Mission, to a recently vacated, small home he'd found out about. Isolated and perfect for what he wanted. In fact, he'd loaned her the first month's rent. Brought her along carefully. Slowly. Saving her for the right moment.

It was over twenty miles to Mission, but to him it felt like a five-minute drive, and he turned the ancient tape up even higher, basking in the glow of the old-time musical memories and the images of his childhood, driving through the early night, a bright moon lighting up patchwork squares and earthtone rectangles that stretched to the horizon. Past “Sand drags,” which he knew all too well, Fred's Package Store & Live Bait, grungy abandoned trailers, just like home.

The car was a work of art. Dude who ran a local chop shop owed him one from way back and he'd got him something untraceable and squeaky clean which, by the time he'd further customized it, was a perfect war wagon. Also, it was sanitized to a fault, in case he was ever spotted or had to dump it. Similarly, his special place was untraceable, and he entered and left it unseen, through the garage. Perfect. He'd thought of everything.

Thirties music thumped from the speakers as he drove past a battery of large silos that a sign advertised to be the property of the Newhope Grain Company. That was it, all right. New hope. But the welded bar gate stood open and the darkened Quonset buildings, two obviously unused tin sheds with open doors, and a bulldozer beside a mound of excavated dirt in an adjacent field, all these were the signposts that brought it all together for him, helped to nurture his core, and took him back home. Because Spoda only saw these things with a killer's eyes.

Later, as his circle of death widened, he would come back this way again. Two extremely interesting expanses of cotton fields caught his eye. A well-tended private road cut back through the field leading to a spacious, expensive residence. It was always surprising to see a beautiful home tucked back in some low-rent corner of rural America. An eight-hundred-thousand-dollar spread replete with the trimmings from parabolic dish to rv to fenced-in Olympic pool, out back of beyond. So invitingly isolated.

Right by the road, alongside the highway, dilapidated frame homes squatted like aging spinsters, old schoolhouses gone to seed, white paint chipped and faded, cracked, peeling, vestiges of long-absent sharecroppers, and they were what you expected to see out here. Then you looked past them into the field and Tara sat waiting to be plucked. Sitting out there like a queen, rich and bitchy, where not even the loudest screams could carry to the road.

Near the turn to Heather's he passed an apparently deserted warehouse that looked precisely like the proverbial warehouse-on-the-edge-of-town from all the old B movies and serials. Three boarded-up doors out front. Back windows barred with rusting iron bars. Insides covered in plywood sheets. Brick columns standing out front, supporting nothing. Loading bay filled in with blocks cemented into place. Discs, trailers, a combine, and an International 510 sat nearby, each turning slowly to scrap metal. He cast a longing glance back at the padlocked building and the fancy home in the distance as he rolled past.

Heather Lennon was so perfect for this night. He'd wheeled out of the elevator at Town Plaza, a business deal had brought him to one of the penthouse apartments, and literally run into Heather as she carried a basketful of laundry from the basement laundry room. She lived there with a pair of stewardesses who were usually out of town, and he'd been able to either sequester her or otherwise remain anonymous by arranging her to come to his home. A pretended legal problem with a soon-to-be ex-wife was his excuse.

He sensed that if he wanted to isolate her for a future target, he must cut her out of the pack. In no time at all she was in the rented home in Mission. Its automatic garage a requisite feature. Isolation was the key. That, and silence on her part.

In that respect she filled the bill admirably. Unattractive by some standards, she had always been the fifth wheel who sat home alone on those occasions when the popular and gregarious stews partied. It was not difficult to persuade her to leave Town Plaza.

As soon as he found out the things she liked, he played to her every desire, making himself over in her favorite images wherever possible. This great-looking guy who shared all her interests, it was an irresistible package for her, and if he was a bit idiosyncratic in the area of compulsive secrecy, she could meet his needs. Heather was a somewhat secretive person herself, used to keeping her own counsel and not garrulous by nature, and his reasons for wanting to keep their relationship quiet seemed perfectly understandable.

She was not unintelligent. But neither was she particularly intuitive by nature. To him, however, she was that perfect blend of smart-stupid that he gravitated toward: not smart enough to question, but not some vapid, gum-popping idiot who would pose a threat.

He pulled up in front of the house and pressed the garage-door opener, noting that she had parked her car in the driveway as he had asked, and as the overhead door slid up, he turned off the cassette player and drove into the garage, lowering the door before he shut off the motor, removing his wig and dropping it out of sight beneath the collapsible chair. In thirty seconds, right on cue, the garage lights came on and Heather appeared, smiling, in the doorway.

“Come here,” he said, motioning with his finger.

“Hi,” she shouted, scampering around the car as he pushed the door open. The ugly bitch reminded him vaguely of his sister. It amused him to consider he could still fantasize about the cunt, even though he hadn't had her in over twenty years.

“Hello, baby. Miss me?” He pulled her head in and they kissed for a long time. He could already feel himself stiffening, growing hot. Wanting her. He could barely swallow he was so excited, and his words came out raspy “I want you so much. Heather.” And she misread his urgency for pure lust and it inflamed her, too, but there was nothing pure about his wanting. “Honey, I've got great news. The therapy worked."

“You're kidding."

“No. It's working."

“Oh! Wow! My God! That's wonderful."

“Yeah. It really is. I'm actually able to stand and walk a few steps before I get tired."

“Oh, darling, I'm so happy for you.” She gently leaned into him and hugged him. “I just can't believe it."

“I was thinking that if you don't mind supporting my weight a bit, I would try to get in there without the chair this time."

“Really? Do you think you should? Is that wise—you know, so soon?"

“I think it might be okay.” I just said so, you dumb cunt, he thought. “C'mon. Let's give it a try. I have to walk as much as I can to build my muscles back. Lean in a little,” he said, putting an arm around her and sliding out from under the wheel with a big show of effort. He loved the playacting stuff. What a turn-on. Fucking with the whores’ minds was the best part, after all.

“Honey, I'm afraid I might drop you or—"

“Don't worry,” he cut her off. “I've got a lot of my strength back.” He pulled himself erect and she laughed with pleasure as he stood in front of her for the first time.

“You're so TALL,” she said.

“I apologize for the gloves, but the salve I've been rubbing on my legs has had a little adverse reaction there—sort of a rash thing, uh—” He wasn't even watching what he said to her now. Just playing with her as he hobbled over to the steps with her, pushing on her as hard as he could without crumpling her down to the concrete. Laughing inside as he put his weight on her.

“We'll kind of have to take it slow up this step here,” he said, mashing her into the wall as he did so, hurting her as much as he could. He was getting bored with it and quickened his pace as he hobbled with her across the room and flopped down heavily into an armchair.

“Shouldn't you get crutches or something?” She rubbed her shoulder, trying to get some feeling back in it.

“Did I hurt you, baby?” he asked solicitously, rubbing her shoulder a little harder than he should, seeing her wince.

“No. I was just thinking—"

“Don't think.” He pulled her down to him. They kissed again. “Angel, you haven't been a bad little girl and mentioned me to anybody like one of your relatives or a best girlfriend, have you?"

“No, hon. Of course not."

“Think real carefully, babe. I mean, if you ever said my name to ANYBODY—like the lady when you rented this place, or when you left your apartment, anybody at work. Think real hard now. Could you have ever said my name? The ex has got her attorneys breathing hot and heavy. I want us to have some money left for when WE get married, ya know?"

“I swear. I never said your name to anybody. Deirdre and Sandra were both real curious about who I was seeing, but I did just like you said. Nobody knows anything about my, you know, seeing you."

He kissed her gratefully. “You're a good girl,” he told her, thinking. You stupid cunt, as he unzipped his fly.

“I try to be good for you,” she said coyly.

“I know how good you can be,” he said hotly, pushing her down. “Take it in your mouth, lover,” he told her as he pulled and pushed and twisted, his gloved fingers in her hair.

“You're so big,” she said, and he pushed her back down. Oh my God oh if only I could believe in Satan, he thought, if only I could speak your name, invoke your name now, praise you, Satan. But he had not believed in a heaven or a hell since he was a small child. Often he had taunted them, standing outside in thunderstorms daring the fake God to strike him down, taunting the devil when he was alone—promising him his immortal soul if His Satannic Majesty would give him what he wanted. Neither of these fictitious nothings existed. He was the higher power. He was the force of evil that came in the night to dispose of such trash. And with every blow he struck, it cleansed his spirit of the dark thing inside.

And finally he exploded in her mouth and the gloved fingers closed around her throat as he ejaculated, squeezing the foul life from this dirty, impure, undeserving slut, mashing the air out of her, cutting off her oxygen with those all-powerful fingers, wrists, forearms, biceps, neck, shoulders, pecs, back muscles that had hoisted his weight, lifeless legs dangling, twenty thousand times, hardening into steel bands of power. These muscles silenced this cunt now, choking the life out of the bitch as she fought in vain to break away, and he shuddered again, thrilled, chilled, and fulfilled, and the last thing she heard before her brain shut down was the sound of steel plunging into her skull.